


the law of stars held together

by omphale23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a perfectly ordinary—if slightly unusual—attraction. And it isn't as if John would disapprove, should he catch Sherlock sitting as he is, cross-legged at the foot of John's bed, turning John's service weapon over in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the law of stars held together

Sherlock doesn't wait until John's left for the clinic because he's ashamed. He's not. It's a perfectly ordinary—if slightly unusual—attraction. And it isn't as if John would disapprove, should he catch Sherlock sitting as he is, cross-legged at the foot of John's bed, turning John's service weapon over in his hands.

Well. It's possible that John would disapprove, quite loudly and with vehement declarations that _guns are not to be treated as toys, just because you're bored and can't be bothered to go out and behave like a normal human being, honestly, it's like living with a child sometimes._ But it's also possible—likely, even—that John would simply sigh and look slightly unhappy and find another new spot to hide his ammunition.

What is vanishingly improbable to the point of impossibility is that John would walk in, watch Sherlock with that measuring look that he's been using more often lately, and understand even the slightest bit of the reasoning behind the strange tableau. That he would accept this—moment—for what it is.

As a result, when John comes home early and catches him with the heavy weight of the gun against his palm, the barrel resting against his temple like a caress, Sherlock expects to be told off. But John blinks, and then smiles strangely at the sight. He says nothing at all, but only steps inside the room, closes the door, and locks it.

Sherlock is slightly discomfited.

Enough so that he drops the gun, which thankfully doesn't discharge. Enough so that when John walks over, picks it up, and counts the rounds in the chamber and the clip, Sherlock goes still and can't look away from John's fingers, confident and quick and professional. He misses both the tension in John's jaw and the way John's lips press together, angry and uncertain.

He doesn't, however, miss the way that John's hand has stopped shaking and his breathing has sped up. When he drags his gaze back to John's face, Sherlock is no longer so convinced that John can't comprehend his terribly mixed motivations.

***

This, then, is how they end up. With Sherlock on his knees, hands spread over his thighs and fingers aching to touch, to move, to grab onto John's hips and drag them within reach. With John looming over him, left arm outstretched to grip the bedpost, one finger wrapped around the trigger as he slides the barrel along Sherlock's collarbone, over Sherlock's chin and between his lips, dragging it away each time that Sherlock's eyes slip closed and his tongue reaches out to taste oil and metal and possibility.

John wants him to watch, and that's fair. That's not so much to ask, in exchange for this—for John, careful and focused and _present_ , giving this freely. And so Sherlock does his best, looks up through his eyelashes at John's face while the barrel slides deeper into his mouth, takes a shuddering breath and hollows his cheeks. He doesn't miss the choked gasp as John's finger starts to tighten on the trigger, nor does he have any doubt that, should he try and reach out before John asks, it will be taken away. Sherlock inhales hard and tries not to blink.

When John's leg starts to ache and he asks a quiet, "Enough?" Sherlock doesn't hesitate to close his eyes and nod, gasping as the barrel slides free and John drops the gun on the mattress behind Sherlock's head. Before he can take a breath, John has dropped to his knees and slid his hands into Sherlock's hair, holding him in place. John bites at his lip, kissing hard and brutal as Sherlock's hands clench into fists and his hips jerk forward.

Sherlock's moaning, straining to get closer as John tears open Sherlock's trouser buttons and reaches for his cock, wraps steady fingers around it and pulls, slides his thumb over the head and kisses harder, tasting of tea and John and danger and good things, _home_ , and when Sherlock has the thought everything goes bright and clean and he's coming all over John's hand, shaking and tense. John keeps stroking, fingers slick and fast and demanding until Sherlock pulls hard away and gasps out, "please, John, let me, you have to, _please_."

At that, John relaxes, lets Sherlock reach up and push him backwards by the shoulders, further back until he's sitting against the wall, Sherlock crouched between his knees. John wipes his hand over his jumper and Sherlock follows, presses one hand against John's chest and reaches with the other between them to where John is hard against his zip. John goes still, and Sherlock slides down until he's braced over John's erection, breathing harsh and hot against the fabric. It's quiet enough that the sound of the zip is shockingly loud; John's grunt of pleasure when Sherlock manages to free his cock from his jeans is approval enough for anything, everything.

Sherlock can still taste steel in the back of his mouth, and as he wets his lips and licks John's cock, he looks up again at John's face. The expression is the same, and he gets only a fleeting taste, a few slow sucks before John's coming, breathless and bent over, dragging Sherlock's mouth off so that the last few drops land on his chin.

Sherlock reaches up to wipe away the mess, slides his thumb into his mouth to taste the last of it. John chokes a little and his fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair. He glances up at the bed, a momentary flicker of confusion that Sherlock ignores, too busy pulling his shirt off and climbing to his feet before he hauls John upright.

When they're both standing, Sherlock leans down to kiss John hard as they drag free from the rest of their clothing. John pauses to shift the gun to the bureau—asking Sherlock's permission with a glance—and they climb into the bed together. Sherlock wraps himself around John, already planning fourteen ways to be caught with his riding crop in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted in slightly different form as a fill at [bbcsherlock_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10782700#t10782700). Thanks to [caersmane](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/) for beta and britpicking. Title is from Carl Sandburg.


End file.
